One Day, but Two Times That Day
by heartbash
Summary: Fill-in-the-blank 3x11. Two horny monsters. Nathaniel has a plan for the day that goes awry as soon as Rebecca enters the picture.
1. The First Time that Day

"I'm going to break up with Mona."

Nathaniel pauses and shifts his weight from his right leg to his left.

"I'm breaking up with Mona."

He buttons his suit jacket, frowns, and then unbuttons it.

"How would you feel if I broke up with Mona?" he asks hesitantly and snaps his wrist in a gesture he wants to appear casual.

He shakes his head at himself in the mirror. Come on, Captain. Be a man.

"I'm falling in love with you," he says to his reflection, changing tactics.

Too much?

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he tries again, but his inflection sounds more like a question than a statement.

Maybe he loves her, maybe he doesn't. All he knows is whatever feeling this is never went away after their two weeks of being together, going out, talking on the phone, having sex, kissing, snuggling, and cuddling. Her words. Each verb a slap in the face, an itemized list of all the things she was yanking away from him, as if ending it wasn't enough. In an instant, his world went from bright technicolor to grayscale, like some weird, fucked up, reverse _Wizard of Oz_.

When he told her it was the closest he had felt to someone, he wasn't lying. Just saying those words out loud made him feel vulnerable and naked and weak and all the emotions he normally avoided at all costs. But, at the time, it seemed like a worthy sacrifice.

Dealing with rejection wasn't his forte, but when Mona approached him, all sweet and poised and perfect, it seemed like a fitting way to rebound. Fuck someone who vaguely resembled Rebecca. But better. Prettier. Thinner. Someone who didn't come with a truckload of baggage or a diagnosis he still didn't quite understand.

In truth, he didn't know if he would ever see Rebecca again, so he secretly hoped the copious amount of photos he posted on social media would somehow get back to her. Her accounts were mostly inactive but surely someone from the office would show her, right? Paula, at the very least. Or Darryl. That guy can never keep a secret. That would teach her a lesson. You don't reject Nathaniel Plimpton III, Esquire.

But then Rebecca strolled back into his office, back into his life, mere weeks after their split, cracking jokes, acting like their relationship never even happened. When he saw her image just outside his door, he felt an ephemeral flicker of hope that she came to reconcile. His stomach fluttered at the thought. Maybe she did see he and Mona together and it made her realize she was wrong. It quickly became clear that wasn't the case. She wanted her job back, that's all, and, if she knew about Mona, she didn't care. Rage and hurt bubbled up inside him and he lashed out, not giving a shit how harsh he was or how many laws he was breaking by refusing her a job.

Because, fuck her, that's why.

The lawsuit was another twist of the dagger in his back and it affirmed the old adage was true. There is a thin line between love and hate. Razor thin. When he confronted her about the case, at her apartment, his anger quickly transformed into arousal. She was sweaty and panting, her tiny body filled with fury, and it took every ounce of willpower not to take her up against the wall right then. (That garish wall with the tacky mural. Disgusting.) The way she strained her neck to bring their mouths centimeters apart, sticking her breasts out to brush against his chest, coupled with the red hot fire in her eyes, made him wonder if she was thinking the same thing.

Sharing an office was a bad idea from the start. His eyes constantly wandered over to her, almost involuntarily, and he had to keep reminding himself to get back to work. (This is not a problem he ever had before.) There were a few times he caught her gazing over at him as well and each time he felt a small, electric jolt of adrenaline. Late one night, _that_ night, she admitted, "Breaking things off with you was honestly the hardest thing I've ever done."

He was floored. Stunned.

Moments later, she fell into his lap like it was inevitable. She writhed and moaned and grabbed at him, hastily pushing off his suit jacket and unzipping his pants while he latched onto her neck and drank in her scent. Oh, he missed this, missed her, more than he would ever admit.

Skipping any semblance of foreplay, she moved her panties aside and sank down onto him, both of them still almost fully clothed. Once he was buried to the hilt, they both stilled, their breath intermingling, simply staring at each other in shock, as if this is something that happened to them rather than something they chose.

"I lied," he gasped, his lips a hair's breadth away from hers.

"What?" She shifted in his lap, creating a new source of friction, her eyes practically rolling back in her head.

"I think about you all the time," he confessed.

Time stretched. A glimmer of fear flashed in her eyes before she finally whispered, "I lied too," and then shut him up by taking his bottom lip between hers. After that, there was no more talking, only her soft hands at his jaw and her wet heat clenching him and her breathy sounds and just her her her.

It was a mistake. That's what he told her, defensively, when he noticed her redressing a little too quickly and her eyes avoiding his. It would never happen again, she said.

Until it did. Five more times. And even though she initiated all their sexual encounters thus far, she was always the one to assert it was the last time.

He knows he's human garbage. Trash. Scum. A cheater. A liar. But he's been dating Mona less than a month. The blink of an eye. The situation was only temporary, anyway, and Mona would never find out.

Extremely temporary, as it turns out, because he's going to break up with her today.

"It doesn't have to be the last time anymore," he ventures, "because I'm breaking up with Mona."

When he strolls into the office an hour later, he's cautiously optimistic. She obviously wants him. Why else would she be throwing herself at him at every opportunity? Plus, despite her claims about not being ready for a relationship, she seems _fine_. She's happy and bubbly and quirky.

Wow, today she looks beautiful. She's wearing a blouse that makes her eyes extra blue and a short skirt (for his benefit, he suspects), and he absently wonders if she's wearing that bra he likes. When she catches him staring, his wandering mind getting the best of him, she hits him with a devilish smile. She's glowing.

"You know, I think I'm running low on supplies," she says, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

"Uh huh," he acknowledges and nods.

As if he had a choice.

She all but sprints out of their office, further bolstering his confidence.

Five minutes later, he grabs a folder on his way out for good measure and saunters into the supply closet. When he enters, she's keeping up the illusion, pretending to peruse the shelves. In true Pavlovian fashion, he feels himself growing aroused from simply walking into the room.

"Oh hi," she says, upbeat but neutral, as if she hadn't had an earth-shattering orgasm the day before in this very spot.

"Hey," he replies, nonchalant, as if he isn't completely undone by her every move.

He takes a beat, contemplating which version of his practiced conversation to use. He thinks a simple_ I'm breaking up with Mona_ should do, but he hesitates too long and she fills in the silence.

"I was, I was looking for these. What do you call these? Do you call these flags or sticky page holders?"

"Oh no, those - I call those _color thingies_, actually," he replies, putting the folder down, instantly forgetting every word he wanted to say.

"Color thingies?!" she laughs openly and his stomach somersaults.

"Yea."

"Oh, my god, that...that Stanford education, like, gave you a great vocabulary."

Oh, she's cute and flirty and all he wants is to kiss her and never stop.

"Well, it's why I'm so good at games like Boggle."

"Oh my god, I love Boggle."

Of course she does. An image briefly flashes across his consciousness of the two of them in his apartment playing the game. She's wearing a soft sweater and biting her lip, concentrating, competitive as ever, furiously scribbling onto a pad of paper.

"Well, you and I should, um, play Boggle some time."

"Yea." She eyes him up and down, bouncing on the heels of her feet, and he knows it's only a matter of moments.

He waits.

"Oh, my god, Boggle," she explodes and pulls him down by the neck, launching herself into his arms. Her mouth smashes into his violently and he tries to match her energy, grabbing anywhere he can reach - her back, her ass, her hair. In his fervor, the inertia of their movements causes him to briefly lift her off the ground.

She's a tornado and he's in the eye of her storm.

As quickly as she latches onto him, she pushes him away, shoving him toward the door. "Close the door. I want to rip your pants off."

Wow.

"Ok," is all he can get out. He moves automatically to the door, quickly flicks the lock in place, and ricochets back to her. Her hands go straight to his belt, making good on her demand. All the blood rushes out of his brain, heading straight to his crotch, despite his best efforts to stop it.

He pulls her face to his for a brief kiss, all she's allowing at the moment, and then sweeps the front of her blouse open. A small thrill runs through him. His belt pops out of its buckle.

...he can tell her about Mona later.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey," she protests and pushes lightly on his chest. Worried he's crossed a line, he lifts his hands away from her body in a surrendering motion.

"This should never happen again after this."

Oh.

"Absolutely. This is the last time," he insists, reflexively.

"Ok."

"Absolutely," he reiterates, as convincing as he can muster. "I love this bra, by the way."

"Oh, thank you," she coos and wraps her arms around his shoulders. With a little hop, she smashes her lips to his and he instinctively catches her, accustomed now to her tendency to throw herself into his arms. He staggers to the door, one of his hands grabbing at her thighs, while the other cradles the back of her head. Pressing her against the door for leverage, he pushes at her skirt until it bunches up around her hips, allowing him to fully nestle between her legs.

Rebecca digs her heels into the backs of his thighs, bucking her hips toward him, trying to generate friction, and when his burgeoning erection finally makes contact with her clit, she moans enthusiastically. They're rutting like two horny teenagers, and the door bangs and strains against its flimsy lock from their movements. She's overly vocal today, not that he's complaining, but he's also hyper aware of the amount of noise they're making.

He pulls his hips back away from her and breaks their kiss. "Hey, we have to shhh," he whispers.

"I guess you better shut me up then," she dares, in a low voice, her eyes locked on his lips.

Nathaniel captures her lips in a bruising kiss (never backing down from a challenge), but stumbles over to the nearby table, a safe distance away from the door. He deposits her as gently as he can on the unforgiving surface, but she couldn't care less about comfort and drags him down by the neck to keep kissing her. Almost losing his balance, he reaches out and grabs at the wall, attempting to steady himself.

(Will she ever _not_ make him feel insanely, infuriatingly off-kilter?)

She whimpers, a sound that simultaneously warms his chest and hardens his dick, and hikes her legs high on his ribcage.

"Jesus, Rebecca, slow down," he pants after separating their lips with a loud smack.

Her brow furrows. "What?" she asks, as innocent as a criminal, and fingers his tie.

"Nothing, just...give me a minute."

His mind races, trying to regain control of his baser urges. This rendez-vous is supposed to be about telling her the truth, about how he wants to be with her. But as she bites her lip and rolls her hips against him, it's all too much and his dumb brain can only process one thing at a time. And the only thing he can think about now is all the ways he can get her to squirm beneath him in pleasure.

Knowledge truly is the enemy in this situation. He knows way too much about her sexual proclivities, which, like everything else when it comes to Rebecca, are nuanced. In the brief time they dated, she wanted variety. She was game for anything. Slow, fast, soft, hard, in bed, on the couch, in the kitchen, in the shower. Nowadays, however, with the limited time they have, she wants to get straight to the point. Most times, she wants it fast and hard and rough. But not too rough. The illusion of danger gets her off. (And anything that gets her off, gets him off, if he's being honest.) She likes a hand on her throat but only a minimal amount of pressure. She likes when he grabs a fistful of her hair but not when he pulls. She likes being restrained but only if his grip is loose enough that she could slip away.

When she's on top, that's a guaranteed orgasm. Missionary, most of the time, if he's hitting the right angle. Standing is hit-or-miss. From behind can work if she's touching herself. He knows he can get her there by going down on her, but she hasn't allowed it for reasons beyond his comprehension.

And, oh, she loves when he talks dirty. He discovered that little tidbit the first time they slept together and never forgot it. If her pleasure is fire, words are her accelerant. He lives for that look on her face, when her eyes flutter closed and her mouth falls open, when he's said something that ignites her arousal. But, of course, there's nuance. Calling her variations on _baby_ or _girl_ is out of the question. According to Rebecca, it infantilizes women.

Sure, fine, whatever.

Sometimes she wants him to shower her with compliments, to tell her how desired she is. Other times she wants him to call her a _bitch_. There's something about the way she hisses back _You're such an asshole_ that helps him understand why she finds it so hot. (He's still working up the courage to ask her to hold a pen to his throat while she says it.) She likes being told what to do and how to do it, and the more forceful he is, the more passionate her response.

All these kernels of information are ever-present in his mind, clouding all rational thought, making him lose his focus of why he wanted to meet her in this damned supply closet in the first place.

"Nathaniel," she whispers, snapping him out of his trance.

He springs back into action, pushing her skirt up around her hips, exposing a pair of delicate, black lace panties. (She's buying matching sets now?) A playful grin tugs at her mouth when their eyes meet. She knows exactly what she's doing to him.

"You won't be needing these," he growls as he hooks his fingers around the material and pulls. Obediently, she lifts her hips to help him out and her eyes turn wild with anticipation.

Tossing the panties to the side, he dips his head between her legs, hooking her thighs over his shoulders. He knows what he wants and she's not going to stop him this time. As he peppers kisses on the soft skin of her inner thigh, he feels her shifting on the table, propping herself up on her forearms.

"What are you doing?"

"You know what I'm doing," he murmurs, inching closer to his goal.

"What's wrong with you? We don't have time. We have a meeting in twenty minutes."

"Come on," he coaxes, "you don't want it?" He's so close he's inhaling her piquant scent with each shallow breath.

Say yes. Please say yes.

Her leg quakes against his face and she rasps, "Next time, ok?"

Next time?

Her eyes dart away. "Not that there will be a next time," she adds quietly.

"Of course not." He acquiesces and tries not to smile at her blatant lie, untangling himself from between her legs, already mentally strategizing how he can make _next time_ happen as soon as possible.

While he removes his pants and shrugs off suit jacket, she watches him as if she's a shipwrecked cartoon character and he's a mirage of a juicy steak. Suddenly the collar of his shirt feels suffocatingly tight, so he loosens his tie. (Though he'll never remove it, because when she tugs on it, the sensation tears through him like lightning.)

"Take off your shirt," he commands as he fumbles with a condom, his hands a little shaky under her scrutiny. She obeys with no protest and pulls the blouse over her head, revealing her laced chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath.

Unable to resist, he cozies up between her legs and buries his face between her breasts, lazily trailing kisses upward and upward until he reaches her mouth. He kisses her, slow and deep and languid, relishing the swipe of her tongue over his lips, the sugary taste of french vanilla from her coffee creamer, her hair between his fingers.

Rebecca leans back, withdrawing from his kiss, and whispers, "Fifteen minutes. Come on."

Ignoring her protest, he moves down to her neck, nuzzling her there.

"Nathaniel," she breathes his name again and wiggles her hips forward, searching for his touch.

With an irritated huff, he stops lavishing her neck. "This is what you want?" he asks, rubbing his cock over her clit and then teasing at her entrance. She nods slowly and licks her lips in response. "Fine," he mutters and thrusts into her, causing a high-pitched sound to escape from her throat.

Fuck.

He attempts to go slow at first. Returning to her neck, he resumes what he started, kissing just below her ear, down her jaw, along her collarbone, as he savors the exquisite drag of her walls around him.

"Harder," she urges, her hips meeting his eagerly with every pump.

Much to her dismay, he continues his leisurely pace, taking his time.

With a grunt she kicks her legs up higher, pressing on his rib cage, forcing him to sink deeper into her. "Hmmm," she moans, "is that all you got, Plimpton?"

Excuse me?

Two can play at this game. He stops moving and pulls back to see her face.

He waits.

Rebecca throws her head back in frustration and emits a groan.

"Something wrong?" He smirks. He's successfully taken back the upper hand...

She smiles slyly, locks eyes with him, and snarks, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were a _real man_ who knew how to fuck a woman properly."

...or not.

That's it.

He shoves back into her. Hard. Abandoning all finesse and reverence, he plunges into her over and over, his movements so forceful the table shakes beneath her. Rebecca, set aflame, writhes under him, rubbing his chest, pulling at his tie, frantically stroking every part of him she can reach.

"So you want to be fucked, Rebecca? Is that it?" he snarls.

"Oh god, yes, yes," she cries. Loud.

"Shut up," he hushes and clamps his hand over her mouth.

Her eyes roll to the ceiling and her walls flutter around him, almost pushing him over the edge.

"You want to get caught, Rebecca? Are you a dirty girl who…"

Her eyes widen slightly.

"Sorry, I mean, a dirty, um…" he trails off, shaking his head, steadily losing the ability to form coherent sentences as he hurls faster and faster toward climax.

He drops his hand from her mouth and threads it through the hair at her nape. "You feel incredible," he says instead.

For a moment, her face softens. But the flash of tenderness quickly dissipates when she angles her hips so his pubic bone starts hitting her clit with each thrust.

"Right there," she gasps and her mouth gapes open in pleasure.

He lunges forward and catches her lips, swallowing her gasp. He's close. Probably too close. But he keeps up the pace anyway, not wanting her to lose momentum. She tugs his bottom lip between her teeth and sucks and it triggers a familiar pull deep in his core that he knows he needs to stave off just a little bit longer.

Without warning, the door rattles back and forth. The lock jiggles several times. A distant, frustrated voice murmurs something.

Rebecca freezes and her eyes widen, the reality of the situation instantly zapping her out of the fantasy. Too far gone, Nathaniel's orgasm rips through him and he buries his face into her shoulder in an attempt to quiet his moans. She holds him, riding out his final erratic thrusts and subsequent aftershocks.

Whoever is at the door gives up and walks away.

Once the footfalls get quieter and more distant, he straightens up. "I'm sorry," he whispers and drops a tender kiss to her lips.

"No, no, no, it's fine," she pants.

Nathaniel slips out of her and helps her off the table. She grimaces and rubs her lower back, and he can't help but notice her legs are trembling.

"You ok?"

She wipes at her forehead, which is damp with sweat. "Yea, that just, um, freaked me out a little."

He nods and grabs her blouse off the ground, offering it to her.

"Thanks," she says, first straightening her skirt before slipping the garment over her head.

He turns around for a little modesty and grabs a Kleenex from the shelf to dispose of the condom. In the haze from his orgasm, he feels predictably boneless and drowsy, but somehow he still craves more. More of her.

As he pulls up his trousers and starts to buckle his belt, he turns back to her and starts, "Hey, um, I wanted to talk to you about something."

She glances up at a clock on the wall and waves him off. "Nathaniel, five minutes. We have to go, like, right now."

"Got it. So later, then?" He points at her, casually, the way he practiced in the mirror.

"Yea, whatever, let's go."

She shoves his suit jacket into his hands and he quickly slips it back on. Before they leave, she takes a moment to adjust his tie and jacket. He can't help but imagine her in his apartment, tweaking his appearance before they leave for work together. Damn brain.

"Am I presentable?"

She runs her fingers through her hair nervously, trying to tame her tangle of curls. "Uh huh. And how do I look?"

_Messy. Flushed. Beautiful._

"Good."

She nods sharply and exits first. He waits two minutes and then follows.

_Next time._


	2. The Second Time that Day

"Is this what you want?"

Rebecca bites down on her bottom lip and ghosts a finger between her breasts, lightly tugging the flimsy collar of her blouse, revealing a hint of cleavage.

"If you want me to be quiet, you'll have to shut me up."

She arches her left eyebrow, smirks.

"Shut up and fuck me," she demands, hitting the f-sound hard in a subito forte.

Too much?

She combs her fingers through her hair, examining her curls closely in the mirror, and practices flipping one side over her shoulder in a way she wants to appear effortlessly sexy. She paints her lips with a soft rose pink lipstick and presses them together to distribute the color.

"I know you want me," she says, pursing her freshly colored lips together at her reflection.

One thing she knows with certainty is that he _does_ want her. He wants her on his desk, her desk, in the supply closet, in the women's bathroom, bent over the conference room table, against any available wall. Anywhere, that is, except their apartments. Having sex in either of their apartments would require pre-planning and, thus, disqualify it as a spur-of-the-moment mistake. They have several unspoken rules like this to keep their relationship, if you could call it that, compartmentalized.

Never at either of their apartments.

Never on weekends. (After hours on weekdays are ok, as long as it's after the janitor's final round at 6:30pm.)

Always lock the door.

Always wear a condom.

No afterglow.

Never speak of the relationship, unless it's to deny said relationship.

Always the A+ student, Rebecca excels at following directions and working creatively within a set of parameters. With these boundaries set, unspoken yet understood, she can navigate the relationship with ease. The arrangement is perfect. She's in lust and he's a man, an infuriatingly attractive man, essentially at her beck-and-call for sex and attention. After years of chasing, chasing, chasing men who either didn't reciprocate her feelings or purposefully withheld affection or abandoned her at the first sign of trouble, she now sits square in the lap of a man who trips over himself at every opportunity to be near her.

In the few weeks they were an actual, legitimate couple, in a haze of dates and sex and cuddling (and more sex), she slipped up. She felt that rush, that overwhelming need, to consume him with her entire being. Obsession. Her drug. At the time, going cold turkey on her drug of choice seemed to be the most obvious solution. She couldn't risk retreading the same path that lead her to her lowest point. The only problem, which she didn't realize until later, is that love and affection aren't like alcohol or meth or gambling. Love is more like food. A certain amount is required for survival.

After Rebecca broke up with Nathaniel, she temporarily pushed him out of her mind through various means of distraction. But the hobbies she tried, and subsequently failed at mastering, didn't stimulate her brain nearly enough as the rigors of her job. She needed to come back to work. Twenty-four hours became too many to fill and she needed a purpose again. But Nathaniel, clearly still angered by her rejection, didn't make it easy on her, yelling her out of his office and denying her the job that should have been hers. To complicate the situation further, the hormones coursing through her body did her no favors. Besides making her out-of-her-mind horny, it also fueled her rage over both the job and Nathaniel's new girlfriend, who appeared seemingly out of thin air in the short amount of time since she saw him last.

She chalked up the first relapse to a much-needed release. After all the animosity from the lawsuit, the jealousy over Mona, and the bickering as they learned to share an office, the sex burst the bubble of tension between them. They fucked like animals that first time. Shameless. Dirty. They ended up on the floor after both the chair and the glass top desk proved to be too unstable for their frantic coupling. Near the end, as Rebecca rode him, she dragged her fingernails down his chest, leaving tiny trails of evidence, and spat, "How could you fire me?" In response, he roughly grabbed both her wrists, pulling them away from his chest, restraining them, and hissed through gritted teeth, "The same way you could break up with me," and then thrust hard up into her, triggering probably the most powerful orgasm she ever experienced.

The reality of what they had done didn't sink in until Nathaniel rose from the floor and she noticed his back, red and raw, with a million tiny dots that matched the pattern of their dull office carpet.

It could never, ever happen again.

Except after that first time, she was forced to sit across from him in the very space they devoured each other just days before. Her eyes kept inadvertently wandering over to the floor, to the spot where he groaned her name and gripped the tops of her thighs and coaxed two orgasms out of her. And how dare he walk around so tall and chiseled and perfect and fuckable? It's really not her fault, if you think about it.

So, it happened again. Five more times.

As much as she tries to recreate the fire and fury from the first time, it's never quite the same. Nathaniel's been entirely too soft for her liking lately - kissing her too slowly and deeply, stroking her hair the way a lover would, lingering too long afterward.

He even tries to give her oral sex, which, when he does it, feels way too intimate for her comfort. Despite her best efforts to push the images away, whenever she sees him down there it transports her back to mornings spent in his bed, wrapped up in his sheets, wrapped up in him, and she panics. When he looks up at her with _those_ soft blue eyes, it's all too much and she always makes him stop.

Another unspoken rule, the one she thinks is undeniably the most important for her mental health: No romance. No love. No emotional intimacy.

That's why today she plans to refocus his attention.

"When are you going to fuck me like a _real man_?"

She giggles at her reflection, knowing full well that little remark will be a bullseye. Her short skirt and a low-cut blouse should do the trick, from a visual standpoint. When she remembers the way he tore open her midnight-black shirt the first time they had sex in the office, goosebumps prickle up and down her arms. She wants to feel his sexual desperation, his unabashed desire for her, again.

When they meet in the supply closet that morning, she's already so primed from fantasizing about the encounter, so over-the-top aroused from the start, she has no tolerance for his attempts to slow her down. She deploys every weapon in her arsenal, the line she practiced in the mirror the final blow in his armor, and finally gets what she wants. The table wobbles and creaks beneath them and she holds onto his shoulders in an iron grip just to be able to keep up with how hard and fast he fucks her. Hallelujah.

Except the door handle wiggles and she hears Tim's voice, the last voice she wants to hear right before she climaxes, and she freezes, all her build-up dissipating. Of all people, Tim is going to bust them, and all she can think about is how Nathaniel's going to be ripped away from her if they're caught. She'll never be allowed to kiss him or hold him or be near him again. The disturbance has the opposite effect on Nathaniel, who comes with a full-body shudder, burying his face against her shoulder, letting out a muffled groan.

After a few moments, Tim gives up and walks away and Rebecca can breathe again. She exhales, and tightens her arms around Nathaniel, stroking the back of his neck, which is slick with sweat. His breath burns hot on her skin and her thighs ache from squeezing his sides and a sticky dampness forms where their bodies are connected. But she doesn't let go, because she wants to feel all of it, all of him. The woody scent of his soap clinging to his neck reminds her of all the times they showered together, how he would spread the suds over her back and lovingly kiss the spot just underneath her ear.

No, no, no. She absolutely cannot let her mind wander into that emotional minefield.

With a gentle push, he takes her cue, untangling their limbs, and the cold air hits her body in an unwelcoming whoosh. She dresses quickly and escapes before he can get in another word.

Throughout their late morning meeting, she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, restless, a dull throb pestering her between her legs. While she should be paying attention to what the client is droning on about, she instead wonders whether she can sneak away undetected and take care of herself during the lunch hour. Nathaniel catches her eye from across the table just as she's uncrossing and re-crossing her legs again. His long fingers fiddle with a pen and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip.

_What the hell? Are you trying to kill me?_

Silence fills the room and she realizes she spoke the words out loud. The clients stare wide-eyed at her and Nathaniel's mouth gapes open in surprise.

"I mean, what the hell, I cannot believe this is happening to fine people such as yourself! Sorry, I'm very _passionate_ about zoning ordinances," she says with a forced laugh.

Nathaniel squints at her and subtly lifts his hands off the table, as if to say _What's wrong with you?_

After the meeting, Rebecca rushes back to their office with Nathaniel trailing close behind.

"Care to explain that little outburst back there?" Nathaniel asks, closing the door behind them.

"I'm just, um, a little tense. I think I need some fresh air," she explains away, hoping he'll buy it.

His eyes trail over her from head to toe and he smirks knowingly.

"Let's go out to lunch," he offers. "Grab the Crawford file, we'll get a head start."

She agrees with reluctance, not wanting to give away too much about her current state, though she suspects from his smug expression he already has an idea.

At _Home Base_, Rebecca keeps them mostly on task, though the persistent ache between her thighs proves to be a distraction. "So, I was thinking about the Crawford case that we," she says and looks up from the file to find Nathaniel's attention drifting. His eyes are scanning the room, looking for...something. "What?"

"I'm just wondering if they have a walk-in pantry," he says.

Presumptuous.

No matter how incredibly horny she is, no matter what amount of proverbial blue balls she's feeling, she cannot let herself get swept up in him. This morning was too close of a call.

"Nathaniel?"

"Hmm?"

"No. We talked about it, ok? Those other times were mistakes. It's not happening again."

"Right," he agrees and shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

Crisis averted.

"Ok." She looks back down at the file. Focus. As she wipes a hint of sweat off her brow, pretending not to be completely flustered by the thought of a round two, she continues, "I was thinking when we get to the hearing that we should…"

"Is that a new top?" he interrupts.

"What?"

"Is that a new blouse?" he rephrases, his eyes darting down to her chest and then back up to her eyes.

"No. I've had it for a while."

"Looks good," he says, his eyes dark, intense, hungry.

"Thank you."

"I like it."

"Thank you."

He gives her a soft smile and her resolve is melting, melting. If only she didn't know all the incredible things he could do with that mouth and those fingers and that tongue, then he wouldn't be so maddeningly difficult to resist. But she _does_ know, and her brain won't let her forget it, as her mind, against her conscious will, wanders into dangerous territory.

Nathaniel is willing to try anything she wants in bed, but is, at the same time, overly cautious of pushing boundaries. Anytime they try something new, he's a broken record, asking for reassurances of "Is this ok?" or "Are you sure?" or his shorthand versions of "Good?" or "Ok?" or "Stop?" Articulating her desires with words isn't always easy when she's in the midst of a mind-blowing sexual encounter, but his eyes constantly watch her and he also picks up on non-verbal cues with impressive ease.

But Nathaniel isn't the only one who is fine-tuned to the finer points of body language. Over time she's learned a multitude of his ticks as well, both sexual and nonsexual. He touches his belt when he feels awkward or nervous. He loosens his tie when he thinks for too long about sex. Literally heats up under the collar. He picks at his cuticles when he wants a distraction. His lower jaw shifts back and forth when he's imagining something particularly dirty. His hands find their way into her hair when he's feeling soft. His fingers dig deliciously into her flesh, whether at her hips or thighs or ass, when he's close to his peak.

And, oh, the sounds he makes. They send tingles through her entire body. When he pushes into her, he exhales as if the wind's been knocked out of him, as if he hasn't been inside her dozens of times before. An abrupt clearing of his throat means she did something he wasn't expecting. When he's close to orgasm, his voice gets huskier, the words _fuck_ and _Rebecca_ sprinkled liberally between low-pitched moans.

Oh god, she wants to hear those sounds again more than she wants her next breath.

"They do have a walk-in pantry, though," she gives in, with a smirk.

"Really?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Why don't we pretend to work some more, meet there in five minutes, take some clothes off?"

Judging by his self-satisfied smile, she surmises he knew exactly what he was doing the second he asked her here. He must know she's on-edge from this morning's encounter, and he knows how to use his piercing blue eyes and his honey-smooth voice to make her crumble in seconds. As the final cherry on top, his foot nudges hers underneath the table and hooks around her ankle.

"Ok. I'm gonna pretend to work. Watch me pretend to work now," she says, returning his playful grin. She puts her pen to paper, pretending not to feel the scorching heat of his eyes on her.

"Oh, good underlining," he says, inching his hand toward hers until she feels his forefinger lightly graze her thumb.

"Thank you."

As she closes the file, he says, "I'm hungry, Rebecca."

"Oh. Well, um, if you want to order something, we could…" For a moment, Rebecca looks around the room for a server.

When her eyes return to his, the corners of his mouth turn up devilishly.

"Oh," she exhales when she catches his meaning.

"Think you can help me with that?"

Her throat goes dry and she shifts in her seat. Did someone raise the temperature in the room by fifty or so degrees?

"Can you?" he repeats, raising his eyebrows.

She nods slowly, all the words in the English language disappearing from her brain like vapor.

Without a word, she swivels in her chair and spies Heather leaving the backroom, a tank of CO2 over her shoulder. Clutching the files, she gets up and slips away, sensing Nathaniel's eyes following her.

When she enters, the room is empty and it appears she's snuck in undetected. At first, she's a bit surprised. It's much more organized than she remembers, with supplies neatly stacked and labeled, the desk clean except for an inbox tray and a cup pens. She moves the objects to a nearby shelf, figuring, perhaps with a touch of audacity, that they'll need this entire surface.

The fluorescent lights emit a gentle hum but otherwise it's eerily quiet.

Rebecca hops up on the desk and waits for him, all her senses fine-tuned to any sound or change in the air, her suspense building by the second. Moisture begins to gather at her center, as she imagines his face down where she wants it most, despite her better judgment. She needs this. And it's purely sexual, she argues with herself. This is just about getting off - no need to bring any emotional baggage into this.

She glances up at the clock on the wall - five excruciating minutes have passed - and she wonders if he's changed his mind or got caught by one of the servers.

Tick, tick, tick.

Just as she jumps down from her perch on the desk, resolved to go seek him out, Nathaniel enters, swiftly closes the door behind him, and locks it.

"Sorry," he says, already loosening his tie, "I had to make sure no one was going to bother us."

"What does that mean? What did you do?"

"Just trust me. No one's going to bother us."

"Ok…"

He nods at the desk and shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it on a chair. "Get on the desk."

She shivers as she obeys his order and, oh yes, she loves when he's like this - demanding, confident, determined to get what he wants. And what he wants is...

"Lay back," he says as he unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt.

She does as she's told, leaning until her back hits the surface, propping herself up on her forearms so she can keep watching him.

"I apologize. About this morning. But I want to make it up to you. Will you let me do that?"

Of course the root of his question is not about whether she wants to come or not. The subtextual question layered in his inflection is, _Why haven't you let me go down on you since we started sleeping together again?_ She can't tell him the real answer, which is that it floods her with warm memories and glitter and makes her want more of him, all of him, which she cannot allow at this stage in her recovery.

But now he's offering it up to her on a silver platter, stating his desires out loud with little ambiguity, and she's so goddamned turned on by the whole scenario, she's not sure if she's ever wanted anything, or anyone, more.

So, despite all the reasons she's built up in her head over the past few weeks, her eyes flutter closed and she whispers, "Yes."

Rebecca? A slave to her baser urges? Who would have thought?

For the briefest of moments his face lights up, in equal measures delight and surprise, but then he visibly dampens his reaction and says, "Good." He rolls up the cuffs of his dress shirt, uncovering his muscled forearms inch by inch, and she fixates on the newly revealed skin, practically salivating with anticipation.

"Spread your legs."

Her mouth drops open and she's openly panting, unashamed at her blatant show of arousal. Slowly, she parts her knees.

His tie slips loose and he drapes it over his suit jacket.

"More."

She lets her legs fall open wider, exposing the most vulnerable part of herself to him. Yet, she trusts him implicitly, her confidence bolstered further when he says, "You're beautiful," the next moment, almost casually, as if it's the easiest thing in the world to say.

"Now lie back," he says as he approaches the desk. She reclines, letting her head come to rest on the desktop, letting out a deep breath as she stares at the ceiling.

Nathaniel palms her left ankle and removes the black heel from her foot, placing the shoe on the ground, then the same to her right. He dips his head down and nudges the inside of her thigh with his nose, his warm breath sending a prickle of goosebumps up her legs. As he kisses the inside of her thigh, his hand sneaks up and pushes up her skirt, his thumb teasing at the edge of her panties. His tongue darts out and smoothes over her thigh as he dips his thumb underneath the lacy material and swipes it over her hot center.

"Wow," he gasps against her thigh and slips his finger into her, causing her to suck in a breath.

He's stopped kissing her, as he strokes his finger in and out of her, testing different speeds and angles. If she knows him, and she thinks she does, at least sexually, she knows his eyes are on her, watching like a hawk. His finger curls up inside her, brushing gracefully over her bundle of nerves there and her hips jerk up against him. Without warning, he presses a hot kiss to her clit, through the material of her panties, and she tilts her head back and sighs, "Oh god" to the ceiling.

For the second time that day, he grabs at the trim of the offending garment and pulls it down over her legs, tossing them in the pile of his discarded clothes. She opens her eyes and the harsh lighting stings her sensitive irises. Noticing her squinting up at the lights, he turns around and flicks off one of the light switches, sending the front half of the room into darkness.

Returning to her, he runs his hands over her thighs, down to her calves, and says, "Just relax, ok?"

When she lets her legs go slack, she realizes how much tension she had been holding there. He pulls one of her legs over his shoulder and ducks his head down, trailing kisses from the inside of her knee, down, down, down until she can feel his breath against her.

His tongue darts out and he licks in one, long, thick stroke from bottom to top and she can't help the animalistic groan that escapes from her throat. His hands moves from the outside of her thigh to grip her hip, holding her in place, as he repeats the same path a few more times. Her eyes squeeze shut and she puts her hand over her heart, feeling its rapid pulsing just beneath the surface.

"Oh my god, Nath..." she gasps, unable to hold back, and she hears him making a pleased humming noise in return while pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her clit.

He slides his finger back inside her, returning to stroke the same spot that made her jump before and runs his tongue repeatedly over her clit, working both areas in tandem. The flat of her foot rubs over his back as she squirms under his ministrations, feeling her arousal building, building by the second. She hasn't had a man's mouth on her since she and Nathaniel dated, and every sensation is heightened, raw, new. She couldn't care less about the hard, unforgiving surface of the desk beneath her or the faint smell of french fries that permeates the room or the fluorescent lighting or her recovery or the fact this room used to have a dart board with her face on it. Her whole world consists of his mouth and his tongue and his fingers and his soft moaning now. Tim could stroll into the room, whistling in that annoying way he does, and she wouldn't give two fucks.

Nathaniel pauses for a moment and raises his head, but keeps working her with his fingers and asks, "This ok?"

"Don't stop, don't stop," she whispers and pushes his head back down. With a grin, he obeys and resumes licking her as she threads her fingers through the small hairs at the nape of his neck.

She's so, so close. It feels like a cord is stretched through her entire body, being pulled more and more taut, about to snap. He pushes another finger inside her, and the stretch is so delicious it almost sends her over the edge. She whimpers at the new sensation, her toes curling in pleasure.

But she needs it just a little rougher, just a little faster, so she applies gentle pressure at his neck until he gets the message and picks up the pace. And, oh yes. A few more seconds and she's gone, stars exploding behind her eyes, her legs jutting out like she's been electrocuted, her fingers on his neck forming little claws, digging hard into his skin.

As she comes down, his fingers slow and his mouth comes to a full stop. She puts a hand to her forehead and lets out a small laugh, saying, "Oh my fucking god," in disbelief.

He chuckles and rubs his hand over her thigh, painting her skin with her own nectar. "Feel better?"

"The best."

He rises, easing her leg off his shoulder, and helps her into a sitting position. She rubs her lower back, wincing at the stiffness, as he smooths his fingers through her hair. With a raised eyebrow, she ghosts her hand over his crotch, which is noticeably at attention, but he jerks his hips away. Grabbing her hand, he says, "It's ok. I wanted to."

"What if I want to?" she says, in her best seductive voice, drunk off her orgasm.

Tugging him by the belt, she draws him close, running her hand over his erection again and this time he lets her, his eyes drifting down to her mouth, his desire for her rolling off him in waves.

She leans up and he meets her halfway, hesitating for a moment, but then kissing her with vigor, cupping either side of her face, his tongue begging for entrance to her mouth. She complies, opening her lips to him, tasting her own arousal mixed with his own unique flavor.

She unbuckles his belt as they kiss, measured and practiced, then unbuttons his pants and slips her hand inside, lightly dragging her nails over the thin material of his boxers.

Breaking the kiss, she slinks down from the desk, with intention to drop to her knees, but he catches her wrists before she can do so.

"Wait, I don't want you to…" he says, panting.

Her eyebrows furrow and she looks deep into his eyes, searching for meaning.

"I want," he says, struggling for the words, "I want to feel you."

She swallows. "Ok."

He backs away from her and removes his pants and boxers. As he's tearing open the wrapper of the condom he pulls from his pants pocket, she notices a slight tremor in his hand, his face serious and focused. After he's rolled the condom on, he sits in the desk chair and beckons her. While it's admittedly not the most comfortable option, she doesn't want to spend another moment on that desk, and the chair thankfully doesn't have wheels, providing decent leverage.

She straddles him and his hands settle on her hips, his thumbs stroking her sides. Still slick from her orgasm, she slides down onto him easily and his breath hitches just the way she loves. In this position, they're face-to-face, so close they can scrutinize every microexpression, every soft sound, the rhythm of every breath.

The oxytocin is working overtime, spreading like wildfire through her brain.

"You feel so good," he says, his mouth so close she's swallowing his words and absorbing them into her body.

"So good," she echoes, cupping his jaw as they move in tempo together, a dance they're slowly perfecting over time.

She closes her eyes, not able to handle the amount of loving vulnerability she sees in his face. Instead, she tries to focus on the draw of a second orgasm blossoming within her, on how hard and full and vital he feels inside her.

"Look at me," he whispers.

With a struggle, she forces herself to open her eyes. She can tell he's close already, his face wrecked with desire, his breath strangled and erratic, his fingers pressing hard into her sides. And she's not far away either, her second orgasm always much quicker to crest than the first, the angle providing stimulation where she needs it.

Nathaniel trails his hand up her back, up into her hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling gently. He presses a kiss to her exposed throat and she groans.

"Hmm, you like that?"

As if he didn't know.

"Shut up," she says to the ceiling with a smirk. He pulls tighter and thrusts up hard into her.

This isn't going to last much longer.

He releases her hair and wraps his hand around her throat. "Oh, I know how you like it," he says, his voice scratchy and low, his strokes speeding up and losing their finesse.

After a few more rough, uneven thrusts, his grip on her throat slackens. He tips his head back and lets out a guttural sound of pleasure that sends her barrelling over the edge right along with him. That moment when he loses control, Mr. Perfect fucking Plimpton, who is always one-hundred-percent in control of every other situation, is so intensely gratifying, it completely undoes her in a way nothing else can.

The second orgasm is not as intense as the first, but she can feel him pulsing inside her, which fills her with a different kind of satisfaction. Leaning forward and closing the space between them, she wraps her arms fiercely around his shoulders, holding on as they both ride out the waves. He returns her hug with the same passion and they stay that way for longer than probably acceptable, just breathing together, connected.

"Rebecca," he says, tenderly, into her neck, "I want to tell you something."

Oh no.

Alarm bells fire off in her head.

"Rebecca, I think I'm…"

"No," she whispers, interrupting him. "Please. Don't. I can't right now."

She has no idea if he understands what she's trying to communicate, but he says, "Ok," and squeezes her tight before letting her go.

As they dress, they're both quiet, reflective, eyes darting to each other, then quickly flitting away.

"This is the last time," she says once they're dressed, her voice soft, her eyes pleading with him to follow suit, follow their routine.

"Ok," he says, his tone subdued, unconvincing.

For the second time that day, she straightens his collar, smooths his tie. He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.

"How do I look?" she asks.

He says nothing, looks down at her heels.

She slips out the door without another word and he follows, just a few steps behind.


End file.
